


It's Not You, It's Me

by randomizer



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodyswap, Gen, M/M, POV Alternating, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:00:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomizer/pseuds/randomizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Baz learn a little more about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not You, It's Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elementarydearmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementarydearmy/gifts).



“I will . . . yes, I will. Tomorrow at the Savoy Grill. Noon, fine. I’ll be there. Goodbye, Father.” Baz clicks “end” on his mobile and sighs, rubbing his head. He glances up to find Penelope looking at him sympathetically and Simon not looking at him at all.

Baz scowls to himself. Why had he answered that phone call? The three of them had just settled down to Indian takeaway and a DVD in Simon and Penny’s flat. The movie—some silly comedy that Baz knows he will almost certainly hate but that he thinks might make Simon smile once or twice—had just started when Baz’s mobile buzzed. And now, any chance of a decent evening seems to be ruined, along with any hope of getting Snow to be more like _Snow_ , more like he used to be back in the beginning, when everything between them was new and tremendous and intoxicating. But now, six months later, Simon seems to retreat into himself more and more without warning. It drives Baz crazy with worry and occasional unreasonable anger—why is Snow _doing_ this to them? Snow, who usually never can shut up, certainly isn’t talking. Baz starts to say something to Simon and then stops himself.

Baz blinks and realizes that Penny is speaking to him. “Your father?”

Baz snorts. “Brilliant deduction, Bunce.” Baz winces at his own snark even before the sentence is finished. He likes Bunce—he appreciates having someone around who cares about Simon, who also notices Simon’s increasingly frequent dark days. So why does he often sound like an ass when he talks to her?

Yet Penny is unflappable, as she usually is. “Lunch tomorrow? I hear the Savoy Grill is quite the place.”

Baz nods at her, giving her an apologetic grimace that he knows she understands. He glances at Simon again, who still isn’t looking at Baz. But then suddenly, Simon _is_ looking at him, and then he is saying something in a low voice.

“What?” Baz doesn’t quite catch Simon’s mumble.

“I said, how long are you going to let this go on?” Simon’s expression is carefully blank. Baz is mystified.

“Let _what_ go on?”

“This. Your father. You’re seriously never going to tell him about us?” Simon’s voice is challenging, but Baz forgets his worry as the full weight of what Simon is saying crushes down on him. He finds himself getting angry.

“Simon, just let it go. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have any idea.”

“I know that we’ve been together for six months. I know that I’m supposed to be your boyfriend. Do I have all of that right?” Simon’s voice is cold—Simon, who can be a lot of things, but who is _never_ , never cold. But this is one place that Baz just isn’t willing to go with him.

“Snow, I mean it . . .”

“Oh, so it’s _Snow_ now? You’ve been avoiding your father for months, just so you don’t have to have any sort of conversation with him. And for what? The man knows that you’re a vampire. Would it be so much worse if he found out that you were with . . . me?” Simon’s voice catches just a little, and Baz feels whatever passes for a heart in him turn over.

“Snow . . . Simon. It’s . . . it’s not you. It’s me. I . . .”

Baz never finishes that sentence, because suddenly the room swirls, a cold wind blasts through him, he hears a loud whooshing sound, and everything turns upside down and backwards.

Baz is face to face with himself, and “himself” looks just as shocked as he feels.

 

**§§§**

“Baz?” Simon stares into what might as well be a three-dimensional mirror. The boy in front of him is unmistakably Simon Snow: tall and gangly, with scrubbly yellow hair, wings, and a tail. Even odder (or at least, just as odd), the voice that he hears coming out of his own mouth is . . . Baz’s voice. 

“Snow? What . . .?” Simon-who-can’t-really-be-Simon sounds as though he can barely breath.

Simon shakes his head the way a dog would after swimming, trying to imagine what could have happened. He remembers picking a fight with Baz, who had just had yet another non-conversation with his father. Simon knows he should have let it go, because Baz will never tell his father about them. How can he, really—it’s one thing to present his father with a boyfriend who has some real prospects in the magical world, but to give him someone like Simon? Someone with ridiculous wings, a silly cartoon tail, and no more magic than the dullest of Normals? Who would do that? Who _could_ do that? Simon feels his throat squeezing shut, and for just a moment he is distracted from the real matter at hand. Then he hears the other Simon saying something.

“Snow, what the hell is going on?” It’s Baz. It has to be Baz. But then, Simon himself must be . . . He runs to the hall mirror, and then he gasps when he sees nothing at all in the reflection.

Baz. Baz is a vampire. And _he_ is . . . Baz. 

Penelope is staring at the two of them, and Simon can practically hear her brain whirring. “Wait, what just happened? Did the two of you . . . switch?”

“ _Another_ brilliant deduction, Bunce.” The voice coming out of Simon’s body is sarcastic with Baz’s trademark brand of sarcasm (cynicism with just a faint soupçon of boredom). Incredibly (and completely inappropriately, Simon thinks), Penny starts to laugh.

“What was the last thing either of you said, before this happened?” Penny tries to stop sniggering but fails miserably.

“It was me. I had just told Simon . . . I think I said . . .” Baz frowns, trying to recall his exact words.

Simon remembers those words clearly, because he had physically braced himself for what he thought would inevitably follow. He was sure that Baz was finally done with him forever. “He said . . . he said, ‘It’s not you. It’s me.’”

Penny finally stops laughing, but she doesn’t manage to look quite as serious as Simon thinks the situation warrants. “Well, there you go. That’s a pretty advanced spell, Baz. When did you learn it?”

“I _didn’t_ learn it.” Baz-who-looks-like-Simon sounds exasperated, his absurd devil tail swishing in angry emphasis. “I never _intended_ to do this.” 

Penny looks thoughtful, then turns to pull a book from a shelf in the living room. “Wait a minute . . . I do remember reading . . . yes! Here we go!” Her voice has the elated tone with which both Simon and Baz are all too familiar, the one that always presents itself at any and all academic triumphs. 

Simon clears his throat. “What does it say?” He holds himself perfectly still, waiting for what Penny might tell them.

Penny’s voice is clinical. “This is apparently a body swap spell that happens when that particular phrase is said and both parties are in a state of unusual emotional turmoil. It should only last twenty-four hours. After that, I’ll be able to cast a spell to return you both to your normal bodies.” With the problem neatly solved, Penny looks as though she’s ready to laugh again. She tries to smother it but snorts anyway.

“Twenty-four hours! We need to fix it before that! I’m having lunch with my father tomorrow!” Baz looks and sounds panicked.

Simon suddenly recalls that he has a problem of his own. “I’m supposed to be Skyping with my therapist tomorrow at noon. I can’t miss it—Esmeralda already thinks I’ve been ducking her.” Simon is starting to hate these sessions; he wishes that he’d never started them, really. 

Penny frowns. “Noon? That’s 6 A.M. in Chicago.” Leave it to Penny to know something like that!

“She likes to get an early start, and I’m her first client of the morning.” Simon is always a little unnerved at just how energetic Esmeralda always seems at what should be an ungodly hour for her. He himself can’t function at all before 10:00. 

“Well, in any case, it could be worse—many accidental spells like this can last up to two weeks, because they require help from the full moon. Twenty-four hours is nothing. You’ll just need to get through it.” Penny sounds brisk and matter-of-fact.

“Get through it?” Simon gapes at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Simon will go out to lunch as Baz, and Baz will Skype with Simon’s therapist. How hard can that be?”

“How hard can that BE? Very, very hard!” Simon is actually making Baz’s deep voice squeak. “I can’t go out to lunch with Baz’s father! What would we talk about?”

“You wouldn’t have to say much, actually. With my father, you just need to smile, nod, agree, and not slurp your soup. You’d probably find that part hardest of all.” Baz-as-Simon is sounding a bit more like himself. “The question is, how could I get by with your therapist? She actually does talk to you, doesn’t she?”

Simon sighs. “If you just say ‘I’m not sure,’ or ‘I need to think that over,’ she’s pretty happy. You can probably do it—it’s only fifty minutes, and sometimes the screen freezes for part of it.”

“There, it’s settled. You’ll both play each other tomorrow, and then tomorrow night we’ll get you sorted out.” Penny sounds as though she’s solved all of their problems, as if nothing in the world can possibly go wrong with this plan.

Simon runs his hand through Baz’s hair on his head, trying not to groan out loud. Why is this happening?

 

**§§§**

Since sleeping together under the present circumstances would be confusing at best and traumatic at worst, Baz goes home to his own flat that night for the first time in weeks. Simon has provided him with detailed instructions about Skyping with Esmeralda, his therapist from Chicago. Promptly at noon, Baz follows the directions and is rewarded with the image of a woman he assumes to be Esmeralda filling the screen of his laptop.

“Hello, Simon. It’s good to hear from you.” Baz is grateful for the smaller image in the right-hand corner of the screen of Simon’s tense face, reminding him of exactly who he is supposed to be right now.

“Thanks.” Not sure how all this is supposed to work, Baz doesn’t say anything else. “Wait and see” seems the better course of valor, under the circumstances.

Esmeralda breaks the awkward silence after a few seconds. “You don’t seem to be in your own flat?”

Baz curses to himself. “No, um . . . Penny needed to meet some of her friends in ours, and Baz is having lunch with his father. He offered to let me use his flat for our session.” Baz is relieved at how normal and plausible this sounds.

Esmeralda, for her part, appears to be moving on into the session itself. “How has your week been?”

“Fine.” Baz wonders if that answer is appropriate—certainly, Simon hasn’t been “fine” this week. In fact, he has seemed moodier and more quiet than ever. Does Simon tell the truth to this woman? Or does he brush her off with what he thinks she wants to hear? Baz doesn’t know, because Simon never wants to talk about therapy.

Esmeralda looks impatient, so Baz gathers that his “fine” isn’t going to cut it. “Let’s go a bit deeper than that, shall we? How have you been sleeping?”

Baz knows the answer to this one, because he is as aware of Simon at night as he is aware of himself. “Not great, actually. It takes me a long time to fall asleep, and I always wake up after only an hour or two. I’m really tired.” Baz knows this to be true; sometimes, it’s all he can do to keep himself from putting his arms around Simon at night and willing him into a peaceful sleep. 

Esmeralda leans forward, looking really interested—Baz supposes that therapists just love hearing that their patients have insomnia. “Have you tried the meditation techniques that we discussed? Do they help you at all?”

Baz isn’t sure about any of that. “Well, maybe a little. I don’t really know.”

“Simon, we need to talk about the underlying issue here, and the ones beneath that. We’ve danced around it before, and it’s time we discussed it directly. I think you’re ready.” Esmeralda looks serious, and Baz is suddenly even more nervous about the direction of this whole conversation.

“Ready . . . ready for what?”

Esmeralda studies him for a moment before replying. “We need to talk about about Baz.”

 

**§§§**

“You can eat, you know.”

Simon looks up in surprise at Baz’s father, trying to figure out how to respond. He has been pondering his menu with a hunger duller than what he is used to feeling when he reads the names of dishes like beef Wellington and glazed short ribs. Baz must have fed right before we switched, Simon realizes; that’s why he isn’t especially hungry, although he’s also willing to eat. He shakes himself, realizing that he never responded to Mr. Grimm.

“Sorry?” ( _Great one, Snow! No wonder this man doesn’t think much of you!)_

Mr. Grimm clears his throat. “Your . . . situation won’t be a problem here. I deliberately asked for a dark table in the back. Nobody will see your . . .”

Now Simon gets it; Baz doesn’t like to eat in public, for fear that someone might notice his fangs. He’s actually a little touched that Mr. Grimm would be this thoughtful to Baz. “Thank you . . . Father.” That “Father” sounds odd in Simon’s ears; he’s never had anyone to call that before. Not even the Mage, who _did_ turn out to be his father. But Simon isn’t going to let himself start thinking about that, not now.

After the waiter comes to take their orders (For Simon, lobster and Cornish crab bisque with brandy sauce to start, followed by Herdwick lamb cutlets; for Mr. Grimm, French onion soup and an English Rose veal t-bone), Simon hears that same throat-clearing noise coming from Mr. Grimm. He looks at the older man, wondering what was coming. How on earth were they ever going to get through an entire meal, the two of them? All Simon really knows about Mr. Grimm is that he dislikes Simon and would also appear to have no real interest in anything that is most important in the life of his own son.

Mr. Grimm is looking at Simon now, a little too steadily. “Basilton . . . we need to talk. I . . . I have a proposition that might interest you."

 

**§§§**

“What . . . what about Baz? We’re fine; everything’s fine.” Baz desperately hopes that what he’s saying is actually true in Simon’s mind, that _he_ can’t possibly be _causing_ Simon’s distraction and melancholy.

“You’re fine? You know you’re not fine. We actually had a bit of a breakthrough regarding that last week, at the end of the session. Can we elaborate on that now?”

Baz sighs. It was going to be a _long_ fifty minutes. "Can you remind me of what we said, exactly?”

“Simon, you’re avoiding this again. You finally managed to tell me during our last session that you’re fairly certain that Baz is getting tired of you. You said it in the middle of complaining about a lack of sour cherry scones and telling me how uncomfortable your wings are now that it’s getting colder, but you _did_ say it. I didn’t want to follow up on it last week, but I want to do it now.”

Baz’s stomach flips over, and he feels even colder than usual. What had Simon said? What does Simon _feel_? That Baz is tired of him? He, Baz, who can’t take his eyes off of Simon, who maps the stars to his moles and dreams about his eyes? He, who would do anything just to hear Simon laugh? Baz just can’t wrap his mind around any of it. 

“What do you want us to do?” If Baz can do anything to get Simon’s mind off of this path, he’s up for it, even if it means conversations with this therapist-stranger.

“Let’s start with your telling me about an instance from the past week that caused any conflict with Baz. Can you think of one?”

Baz immediately remembers the near-fight that he and Simon had after Baz’s father called, right before the “It’s not you, it’s me” spell kicked in. “Yes, I do remember something. Yes.”

Esmeralda smiles at him approvingly through the screen. “So let’s talk about it.”

 

**§§§**

Simon is nervous—he wishes that his bisque would arrive, just so his hands would have something to do and his eyes would have something else to focus on. He takes a gulp of water as a poor substitute. “What sort of proposition?”

Mr. Grimm hesitates and then speaks again. “I’d like you to leave London and come to live in Oxford. I know that you’re enjoying your life, but I’m prepared to make it worth your while, monetarily at least. We’d give you your own flat and money to travel where you like during your vacations. The university is prepared to admit you as soon as you’re ready to come. What do you think about it?”

Simon knows what he thinks about it—he can’t stand the idea of Baz leaving London. But the question is, what would _Baz_ think about it? Maybe he would want to go. Maybe getting away from Simon would be the very best thing for him. Maybe it would spare both of them the pain of what would almost certainly be an inevitable ending. How could they possibly last? He was a washed-up Chosen One, a Normal who would never be normal. And Baz was . . . Baz: brilliant, talented, stunningly handsome Baz, who could do anything or be anyone he wanted. Baz at Oxford, at one of the best universities in the world—yes, that sounded right.

Simon hesitates, not knowing exactly how to answer. Mr. Grimm, clearly pleased that he isn’t being rebuffed immediately, presses on. “Basilton, I know we haven’t talked about this yet—I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, and, frankly, I’ve been relieved that you haven’t. But your mother thinks that I should . . . Basilton, I know that you have . . . feelings for Simon Snow. And we can’t avoid discussing those feelings forever.”

 

**§§§**

****Baz shrugs and then decides that he actually _wants_ to talk to someone about this. “I had . . . I mean, Baz had just gotten a call from his father. We were all in our flat, and Penny and I could hear Baz’s side of the conversation. They were planning to meet the next day for lunch. And I . . .” Baz stops, thinking for a moment.

“Yes?” Esmeralda prompts him. “How did you feel about what you were hearing?”

Baz pauses. “I guess . . . I guess I just got mad at the idea that Baz was going to be seeing his father and not telling him about us. I don't think he's ever going to tell him about us.” Baz knows that overhearing that conversation had a major effect on Simon, pulling him out of his solitary depression into outright anger. But Baz still isn’t really sure _why_ that had happened. Simon, after all, knows that Baz and his father don’t exactly have a talking and sharing sort of relationship.

Esmeralda, of course, wants more. “And how else did it make you feel?”

Baz shakes his head a bit, exasperated. How else? It obviously made Simon feel angry, and it probably hurt his feelings. Wasn't that emotion enough for any one person? “What do you mean?”

Esmeralda hesitates for a second before seeming to come to a decision of her own. “I usually like to let my clients come to their own realizations, but occasionally I give them a nudge. Simon, here’s your nudge: you’ve lost a lot in your short life so far. The closest person you’ve had to being a parent to you turned out to be evil. You were the Chosen One, and you lost all your magic saving everyone else. You’ve fallen in love with a boy who you thought for eight years was plotting to kill you. You told me last week that you're worried that Baz is getting bored with your relationship. This phone call obviously brought up those feelings again for you, didn't it? But, given your background, do you think there’s the smallest, tiniest possible chance that your fears that Baz is tiring of you are more about you than they are about Baz?"

Baz starts to shake a little at her words, suddenly feeling as though he actually _were_ Simon, feeling Simon’s emotions rather than just his wings and tail. Simon, hurt and confused. Simon, still grieving and feeling guilty about killing the Mage, even though he knows it had to be done, even though he realizes that the Mage is neither the wizard or the man that Simon had assumed him to be. Simon, feeling useless without magic, when magic had been the one thing that pulled him out of the sad, dreary life he had led before coming to Watford. Simon, wondering just what he is to Baz, not really knowing how much he _means_ to Baz. 

And, to be honest, it all feels like shit.

 

**§§§**

Simon gapes at Mr. Grimm; luckily, in this particular case he is fairly certain that Baz would also be gaping, so there is no need to tweak his reaction for the sake of plausibility. He wonders briefly if hearing things that couldn’t possibly be said is a side effect of the body swap spell, one that Penny hadn’t thought to mention.

Fortunately, Mr. Grimm doesn’t seem to expect a response, because he continues without waiting for Simon to speak. “I know that you find this difficult. I do, as well. I just . . . I am concerned about you, you know.”

At that moment the waiter arrives with their first courses, and Simon is able to busy himself with a swallow of bisque while planning his answer. He decides on something neutral. “You don’t need to worry, Father. I’m fine.”

Mr. Grimm looks at him. “Basilton, you really haven’t been ‘fine’ since you lost your soul, and since we both lost your mother. I want you to know that I know that.” He is suddenly extremely busy with his French onion soup.

Simon feels Mr. Grimm’s words echoing inside him. He has heard them before, or ones like them. At the leavers ball, that was it.  He and Baz had danced, and Baz had said . . . what had he said?  _I was eleven years old, and I’d lost my mother, and my soul, and the Crucible gave me you._ How could he have forgotten that? Baz almost never talks about all that he had lost; he must have really meant it, to come out with it like that. Simon suddenly feels like the most selfish bloke in London. Has he been so preoccupied with his own anxiety and resentment, so focused on why Baz refuses to tell his father about the two of them, that he has never fully grasped how difficult everything must be for Baz? Baz lost his mother; his father is all he has, and that father is a pretty formidable person, to say the least. Simon has never really thought about what it would be like to hide so much of yourself from someone who has always been one of the major figures in your life. But he's thinking about it now.

 _It’s all about Baz. It’s not about me and Baz. It has nothing to do with us at all, not really._ That thought floats off of his chest like a hundredweight, and he feels suddenly free.

Mr. Grimm interrupts his thoughts by looking at him steadily, and Simon is startled at his fleeting expression of genuine compassion—it’s there for only an instant, replaced almost immediately by the almost-bored expression that Simon typically associates with Baz. “Basilton . . . I’ve gotten used to having a vampire for a son, and I’ll adjust to having a son who prefers the company of men to women. But however that might be, I don’t want you to doubt for a second that you’ll always be part of our family. I want you to be have a great life. I’ve been lucky to have been able to share mine with two wonderful partners, and I want the same for you.”

Simon is inexplicably near tears; he wishes more than anything that Baz could be here right now. It seems wrong that Simon is listening to it instead; he feels like an intruder. “Thank you, Father.” It’s all that Simon can choke out, and it’s more, he knows, than Baz himself might have managed.

Mr. Grimm nods slightly; if he is feeling emotional too, he’s skilled in keeping those feelings in check. “If you decide to come to Oxford, and you wish to ask Simon to accompany you, I want you to think hard about whether that would be the best thing for you to do. It’s your business whether or not you wish to share your life with another man, but I’m not sure that Simon Snow _is_ that man for you. It might be best if you broke it off from him and started life afresh.” Mr. Grimm says this last sentence a little too quickly, knowing what his son’s reaction is likely to be. Simon, for his part, can barely draw a breath. 

 

**§§§**

“I don’t . . .” Baz finally has enough air in his lungs to form words. “I mean, even if I said that last week, I was wrong. Simon doesn’t . . . I mean, _I_ don’t—I shouldn't—have any reason to doubt how Baz feels.”

“I know you know that intellectually, Simon—Baz has certainly proved his loyalty to you. But you don't know it in your heart, do you?”

“I . . . I’m not sure what I really feel, to be honest.” Baz suddenly _isn’t_ sure. He and Simon haven’t had a talk about what they are to each other in a long, long time.

Esmeralda seems to approve of this response. “What do you think would make you more sure, Simon?”

Baz thinks about that. “Maybe . . . maybe if Baz could tell me what he’s thinking about more, maybe it would help. If he weren't such a damn mystery sometimes . . .” And maybe it would help _both_ of them, he thinks to himself. Baz has always had trouble with that—he’s more comfortable sneering than smiling, more at ease with an insult than a soft, loving word of approval. But surely Simon can see through that, can’t he? Baz is so smitten with Simon that he fears there isn’t a person alive who _can’t_ see it. Sometimes Baz feels so invested in his future with Simon Snow that he thinks he might burst into flames at any moment. Telling Simon how much he loves him, how _all in_ he really is, shouldn’t be as difficult as it often feels. 

“I know it’s hard, Simon, and I know it scares you, but I think you have to be able to tell Baz what you need. Give him a chance to give it to you, and he might surprise you.”

Baz nods at her, grateful. He _wants_ that chance. There are many, many things in the world that Simon might doubt, but how much Baz cares about him shouldn’t be one of them. “I will. I can do that.”

“Good.” Esmeralda is brisk now, clearly feeling that the session has gone well. “Our hour is nearly up. Why don’t we say that you’ll have a real conversation with Baz this week, and we can talk more about it at next week’s session. Ok?”

Baz nods, smiles, listens to Esmeralda’s final words without really hearing her, and then clicks “hang up” to terminate the Skype session. He stares at Esmeralda’s frozen face on his laptop screen for several minutes, thinking about all that has just transpired. Then, reaching a decision, he stands up and walks quickly out of his flat, Simon’s tail swishing emphatically behind him.

 

**§§§**

“I know that this is difficult to hear, Basilton, and I know you’re fond of Snow. But he’s so different from you—you think that doesn’t matter, but it does. You and he have nothing in common, and he’s likely to end up breaking your heart.” Since his son hasn’t stormed off from the table, Mr. Grimm sounds a little more confident in what he is saying.

Simon finally locates his voice from somewhere deep in his stomach. “He’s not going to break my heart. If there’s any heart-breaking, it’s much more likely that I’ll break _his_ heart.” Truer words were never croaked, Simon thinks.

“Basilton, he’s a Normal with no parents and no clear future. He’s lucky to have latched onto you, but he’ll want to go back to his own kind sooner or later. Why not control that while you still can?” Mr. Grimm takes a sip of his chowder and watches Simon carefully.

Simon’s reply is quick and heated. “You don’t know him at all, Father—we have more in common than you think. We’re both—we’re both not who we started out life being, and we understand each other. We _match_. If there’s one thing that I’m certain of, it’s that Simon Snow will never hurt me; he’s not that sort of a person. You just don’t _know_ him.” Simon pauses, wondering if he’s said too much, wondering if he should stop. But he knows that he's speaking the truth, both for himself and for Baz. Baz loves him; he must, if he's been willing to go to the lengths that he has to share his life with Simon. Baz would defend him in exactly this way; Simon is suddenly and completely sure of that.

Mr. Grimm is looking at him, with—could it be?—a hint of a smile on his face. “You sound very certain, Basilton.”

Simon nods vigorously, almost knocking over his bisque with a very un-Baz-like expressive hand motion. “I am—Father. I am. And thank you for the offer about Oxford. I’d like to think that over. But whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it with Simon.”

Mr. Grimm looks at him almost approvingly. “I suppose that means that your mother and I need to get to know Mr. Snow a bit better, doesn’t it? As you say, I don’t know him at all. Why don’t you bring him to the lodge in Oxford next Sunday for tea? Mordelia and your mother both miss you. Yes?”

Simon nods his assent. He would like to get to know the Grimms, he thinks to himself with surprise. After all, they’re an important part of what made Baz the person that he is today.

“Good.” Mr. Grimm frowns at their waiter. “Where _are_ those main courses?”

 

**§§§**

As they both leave the restaurant, Simon wonders whether he is expected to hug Mr. Grimm goodbye or merely nod to him; he settles on a handshake, which is probably somewhere in between. Mr. Grimm smiles slightly and thumps him on the back. Simon finds that he likes this back-thump; he’ll have to remember that, if the situation ever presents itself again.

And then he sees Baz—sees _himself_ , really—across the street, looking at both of them. Baz, in Simon’s body, wings hidden under his jacket and tail neatly tucked into his pants.

Mr. Grimm looks at Simon. “That’s your Mr. Snow, isn’t it? I think he must be looking for you.”

Simon barely hears him; his eyes are entirely on Baz, who is striding toward him. “Ba . . . Si . . . Snow, what are you doing here?”

Baz doesn’t answer. Instead, in full view of Mr. Grimm, who is watching with astonishment, Baz pulls Simon into a long, passionate kiss. Somehow, it doesn’t feel to Simon as though he’s kissing himself; it feels like Baz, tastes like Baz, and it’s everything wonderful. He lets himself melt into the embrace, not caring about anything else in the world.

Now Baz is speaking softly, so only Simon can hear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t made it clear to you that you’re the most important thing to me in the world, and you always will be. Do you understand that? Is that getting through that thick skull of yours? I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”

Simon shakes his head; really, his whole body appears to be shaking. “No. No I’m not. I won’t break your heart if you don’t break mine.” He has no idea what prompted this from Baz, but he makes a mental note to stop complaining about Esmeralda. She’s more than earned her hourly fee this week.

Baz turns to his father defiantly. “Fa . . . Mr. Grimm, your son is queer, and he’s in love with me, Simon Snow.” He appears to brace himself for what his father might say.

Simon tugs at his sleeve, whispering. “He knows about us already. He’s OK with it.”

Before Baz can react to what must be astonishing news, his father is talking to him. “Yes, Mr. Snow, I’ve gathered that. Basilton will be issuing you an invitation to come to tea at our lodge next week. Please be on time, and please dress appropriately. Good afternoon to you both.” He nods at both boys before leaving. Simon shakes his head in wonder and a touch of admiration. Whatever else, Mr. Grimm has style.

 

**§§§**

Later that night, back at their flat, Penny asks Simon and Baz to clasp hands and look into each other’s eyes for a full two minutes. At the end of that two minutes, Baz feels as though he can’t bear to keep his hands off of Simon for a second longer, and he sees that Simon is having a similar reaction. Before they can do anything about that, Penny says simply, “Be comfortable in your own skin.”

The same whoosh, the same crash, the same cold wind, the same upside-down-and-backward feeling, and then he is himself, and Simon is Simon. Baz has almost never been so glad to see him. Penny looks at both of them, shaking her head. She has enough sense to excuse herself into her own bedroom and shut the door.

Simon reaches for Baz’s hand and Baz squeezes it tightly, never wanting to let go. “Simon, let’s not let this happen again, shall we? I don’t want to sound like a git, but we do need to talk more.” Baz means it.

Simon nods. “We do. We will. But sometimes . . . _not_ talking can be pretty great too. Like right now?” He points his chin a little toward the bedroom, giving Baz his best “come hither” look. Even his tail curls seductively.

Baz raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure? I can put on a pot of tea instead. There’s a lot to chew over after all this . . .” His mouth twitches in amusement.

Simon shakes his head, grinning broadly for the first time in what seems like forever. As that grin turns into a gloriously full laugh and he and Baz walk into the bedroom, Baz knows that he has never felt more comfortable in his own skin in his life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, elementarydearmy! Thank you for giving me such an open-ended prompt, because it let me have a lot of fun with these characters. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!


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